


pity chocolates

by restlessvirtue



Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: F/M, Valentine's Day, Valentine's Day Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-13
Updated: 2019-02-13
Packaged: 2019-10-27 15:06:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17769065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/restlessvirtue/pseuds/restlessvirtue
Summary: It doesn’t count as alone on Valentine’s Day if they’re alone together.





	pity chocolates

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt was: “That better not be a pity rose. Pity chocolate I’ll take, but that’s it.”
> 
> Happy Valentine’s (for tomorrow), folks! I had a lot of fun writing this so I hope you enjoy. Something light and fluffy, like the sponge of those Valentine’s cupcakes that I’m definitely going to eat all day long until I forget I’m going to be single and writing rpf on the internet forever. Okay, have a great day. xoxo

When the knock on the door comes, Tessa’s stretched out on her couch with her laptop balanced over her knees, replying to emails. She’s wearing her coziest pyjamas – the wonders of working for herself never cease – with chunky knit socks on, hair bunged up on the top of her head, custom-designed glasses sitting on the bridge of her nose and two little dots of white covering zits she can’t seem to shake. It’s safe to say she’s not prepared for visitors. But it’s Valentine’s Day, and who’s going to stop by on Valentine’s Day? She imagines everyone’s either caught up in their own romantic evenings – rose petals on the bed, champagne bubble baths, not-so-surprise proposals in the middle of a restaurant – or, like herself, avoiding human interaction entirely for fear of encountering the former.

Reluctantly, she shuffles to her front door, bracing for the rush of cold air that she knows is about to hit her. Whoever it is better have a damn good reason, she thinks bitterly, leaning in to look through the peephole.

The sight that greets her sends a cool shiver down her spine before she’s even opened the door. There, through the fisheye lens of her front door, she sees Scott. He’s wrapped up, head to toe, in an extra puffy puffer coat that has ‘Canada’ stitched across it with a mismatched toque and scarf. She can see his cold breath hitting the air in a white cloud before he puffs his cheeks, shifting his weight from one foot to the other restlessly, both hands hidden behind his back.

He looks like if he stands still he’ll freeze, but when she opens the door to him, there’s a smile waiting for her that’s so warm, it could melt every flake of snow on the ground. (Which is exactly the kind of thought she’s working so hard to _suppress_ on Valentine’s Day.)

Gathering her composure, Tessa glowers at him for the unexpected interruption to her quiet evening in.

“Oh wow,” he laughs. “It’s worse than I thought.”

“What do you want?” she replies, sounding even more prissy than she intends it.

“I brought you gifts!” His bright tone is a complete contrast to her own, as the mitten-clad hands that had been hidden behind his back come around to reveal a box of chocolates and a single rose.

She can feel her resolve beginning to thaw. How many Valentine’s Days had she dreamt up some version of this very moment? How many times had she imagined he’d show up at her door just like this? More times than she would ever care to admit. So, instead of melting, she says, “That better not be a pity rose. Pity chocolate I’ll take, but that’s it.”

Scott hands over the heart-shaped chocolates with enthusiastic haste and then makes a show of throwing the single red rose over his shoulder, letting it land a few feet away over the crisp, white snow that’s settled on her front path.

“Do you know how sad it is that you were so confident I’d be home alone tonight that you actually came prepared?”

“I took a gamble,” he says with a shrug.

Tessa stares him down, deciding a sharp glare is the best way to get the truth out of him.

The corner of his mouth lifts to a half smile. “I saw your face when the others were talking about their plans in the meeting earlier. I can tell a fake smile from a real one by now, kiddo.”

She groans a little. “Embarrassing.”

“Hey, I’m alone too!” he points out.

Tessa raises her eyebrows, accepting his argument, and then moves to one side to allow him entry. The way he almost stumbles over his own feet to get inside the house gives away just how cold he’d been as he’d stood out there waiting, his hands rubbing together eagerly before he begins peeling off his red woollen scarf and toque. When he takes his coat off, he’s left wearing a similarly patriotic long-sleeved t-shirt and black jeans that she’s almost certain he’d bought under her guidance.

“So you wanna consolidate our aloneness,” she infers, wandering towards her kitchen with the expectation for him to follow.

“Not to get technical on you, T, but I don’t think it counts as alone when there’s two of us.”

“An evening on the couch in my pyjamas with my best friend is hardly the height of romance,” she contends, stopping in her path to turn around and face him. “We’re both gonna end up home alone in the end.”

“I see we’re deep in the wallowing stage already,” he replies with an easy chuckle. “Okay, wallower, how about if I stay until midnight? Alone on the 15th of February doesn’t have the same sting, eh?”

Tessa rolls her eyes but can’t quite suppress her smile. He’s so good at this, at eking out the good and the happy even when she’s utterly determined to be miserable. “And what do you think we’re gonna do for the next–” she checks her watch “– _six_ hours. Sit around waiting for Valentine’s Day to end?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I have plans. First, I’m gonna magic you up a Valentine’s feast from whatever ingredients are lying around in your fridge, while you spoil your appetite with those chocolates,” he explains, tapping the top of the box in her hands.

“And then?”

“You’ll find out,” Scott teases, an infuriating twinkle in his eye.

“I’ve got stuff to do, you know.”

“What stuff?”

“Work.”

A smile breaks out across his face – one that stops her breath in her throat and makes her forget her own name. They stare at each other, until, eventually, his tone so smug she wants to wipe that damn smile off his face, he says, “As your business partner, I really think you should be spending the evening with me.”

She can’t seem to resist smiling back, even as she shakes her head and looks away. “You’re a very annoying man.”

“Well, I’m the only valentine you’ve got, kiddo.”

“I thought you were trying to make me feel better.”

 

*

 

 _Hour One_  

 

“You know, I wasn’t wallowing. I was working,” she tells him, not quite ready to settle their dispute as he makes himself at home in her kitchen. He’s been here enough times to know the cupboards with the pots and pans from those with the (very limited) condiments and seasonings, so she just lets him get on with it. He dances around her space like it’s learned choreography, never putting a step wrong.

His back to her as he sticks his head in another cupboard, Scott replies: “And now you’re relaxing.”

“I’m really not. Those are my fancy plates, Scott. Please don’t–”

Creating a clatter, he draws two of them out, almost taking half the other crockery with them, and then turns to her, extremely pleased with himself. “It’s a fancy occasion.”

She looks back at him like he’s being ridiculous. He _is_ ridiculous. “I’m in my pyjamas.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything but–”

“What?”

“Well, you could’ve dressed up a bit.”

“I didn’t know you were coming over!”

“So if you _had_ known I was coming over, you’d have dressed up?”

The angle of his teasing catches her off-guard. It puts a dent in her prickly facade. “Well, uh,” she hesitates, suddenly becoming a little flustered, her face blooming a warm red, “I might not’ve put toothpaste on my zits, at least.”

“Yeah, that’s not very Nivea of you, T.”

“Shut up.”

Pulling up a perch on one of the breakfast bar stools, she watches as Scott starts fishing ingredients out of the fridge. There isn’t much in there and she’s pretty sure that half of it has gone bad already, but he manages to find eggs, butter, milk, cheese, ham, salad leaves and spinach. It’ll be omelettes for dinner then, she figures.

“If there’s a bad snowstorm, you would be absolutely fucked. You have almost nothing in here,” he tells her, and it’s an argument they’ve had before – its familiarity stirring a warm, fond feeling that feels ill-matched with the warning in his words.

“If that happens, I can just call you,” she teases him, knowing exactly what he’ll say.

“You can call me so I can tell you ‘I told you so’.”

“You wouldn’t say that,” she pushes back.

“No?”

“No.”

“What would I say?”

“You’d come straight over and make me shitty omelettes with whatever’s in the house.”

He thinks about it, and she wonders if maybe this’ll be one of the times he argues the point. Instead, calmly, he replies, “My omelettes are never shitty.”

He’s right, in fairness, but giving him something to prove will only improve her prospects for the night, so it doesn’t hurt to wind him up a little. In fact, he punctuates his statement with the sound of an egg cracking against the side of the bowl. (Again, it’s a fancy bowl rather than one of the bowls she actually uses, but he’s determined to have his own way.)

“You need a hand?” she offers, the strain over every syllable making her reluctance very clear.

“No. You just sit back and relax.”

He continues ceremoniously cracking the eggs before combining with the butter and beating it all around the bowl with a fork. It’s not a bad view, his whisking arm getting quite the workout. At one point, he gets some raw egg on his hands, quickly moves to the sink to rinse it off and then dries his hand on the tea towel. Once he’s done, he throws it over his shoulder with some flair, leaving it hanging there in a very blatant attempt at living out some of his legitimate chef fantasies.

Tessa rolls her eyes at him, catching a hidden smile – he’s so fucking pleased with himself – before he moves to her drawers to grab a pan. There’s a certain swagger about him now, his chef flourish giving him added confidence.

“I don’t know why you’re acting like you’re Gordon Ramsay over there. It’s an omelette, Scott. Even I can manage eggs.”

He stirs up his whisked egg again, surveying it, and then reaches for another from the carton.

“How many eggs are you using?” she asks, raising an eyebrow rather pointedly when he waves her off.

“You know, in Quebec, one egg is an œuf. A little bilingual wordplay for you there, T.”

“Wonderful. You know, in my kitchen, one Scott is a pain in the ass.”

“I’m hurt. Here I am, cracking on with dinner – hope you caught that little pun there,” he interjects as she stares back unamused, “and you’re just calling me names. So ungrateful.” Making a real performance of his mock offence, he places his hand flat over his heart.

“I’m sorry. I know you’re really cracking yourself up, but the yolks could use a little work.” Tessa shakes her head and corrects herself: “Sorry, I meant jokes. Although, I don’t think you’ve worked those eggs enough yet either.”

“Oh, and who is the chef here?”

“Scott, I think we both know there isn’t one.”

“You should start being nicer to me, T. This is the reason you were all set for a night of spreadsheets and emails,” he teases her, the softness in his eyes absorbing any of the sting.

Right on cue, she reaches out for one of the grapes in her fruit bowl and launches it at him from across the room.  

“Tess! That nearly ended up in an omelette! I know you aren’t much of a connoisseur with flavours but, really, grape does not belong in the omelette. That’s a little tip they gave me back when I was studying at Le Cordon Bleu.” It’s becoming very clear, he’s now fully disappeared into character, even committing to a French accent as he references the famous culinary institution.

“They wouldn’t let you anywhere near Le Cordon Bleu.”

“I’ve got very good references, Tess. All of our coaches liked me.”

“Everybody _likes_ you, Scott. Doesn’t mean they all want to teach you.”

“Why wouldn’t you want to teach me?”

“You can be very distracting.”

“Distracting how?” he challenges her.

Wasn’t that the question. She opens her mouth and closes it a few times over, offering little more than a bad impression of a fish before she answers. “Just… distracting. Look, you’ve barely got this omelette started and it’s been nearly 20 minutes.”

“So impatient for my cuisine, eh, Tess?” he says, smiling so warmly at her, it almost gives her heartburn. “Before dinner, why don’t you go upstairs, freshen up a bit and I’ll handle everything in here. If you leave that toothpaste on any longer, it’s gonna really dry out your skin.”

The concern seems to be genuine. She wants to ask how or why he knows that and, evidently, the question is written all over her face, because he adds, “You told me to do it years ago. You think I didn’t listen? That’s the closest thing I have to a skincare routine.”

“I’m not going to get into all the reasons why that is… terrible,” she starts, “but are you sure?”

“Yeah, of course. Couple of omelettes, toss a salad and voila, we’ve got ourselves a Valentine’s feast.”

She looks at him, unsure, before walking out of the kitchen. “I’m not changing out of the pyjamas, though.”

“Wouldn’t expect anything different!”

 

*

 

_Hour Two_

 

Tessa takes her time upstairs, indulging in a bubble bath rather spontaneously as the occasional sounds and songs coming from Scott downstairs provide an impromptu soundtrack. While it’s far from her usual ‘Relax & Unwind’ playlist, she finds herself feeling the calmest she’s been in months. The comfort she finds in his company, even in this small way, takes her by surprise after she’s spent so long striving to maintain a safe distance. (In truth, she’s long since realized that the world isn’t wide enough.)

It’s been more than half an hour when she decides, after having donned fresh pyjamas, a revamped top knot bun and her fluffiest bathrobe, to come back down. Scott never calls up to hurry her along so she figures he’s been taking his time with the food prep, or entertaining himself with whatever he can find in her house – the TV, perhaps.

He waltzes out into the hallway as she’s coming down the stairs, a proud smile pulling at his lips that immediately sets her on edge. “Is everything okay down here? No firefighters needed?”

“All good,” is all he replies, still beaming.

When she reaches him, he takes her hand the way he does when they set out on the ice – as though, _of course_ that’s what he’s going to do now. She lets him lead her into her dining room, only to find the room aglow with candles. There are tall, white candlesticks filling her ornate candle holder at the centre of the table, with a line of sparkling tea lights along the windowsill in the background.

“Dinner by candlelight, huh? What did I do to deserve this?” She tries to say it lightly. She tries so hard to take it all in stride, another one of those achingly romantic things Scott does without ever truly meaning it quite how it might seem.

“Do you want a list?” he replies, like a reflex. It jolts her to attention. The lightness of her tone is not reflected in his; instead, his gaze bores into her, as though challenging her to push him on it. What would he say, she wonders desperately. She knows it’d only break her heart: a review of their history, of all the times she forgave him for mistakes, of all the times she’d offered kind words to brighten his day, of all the times she made sacrifices for him and for them. And he’d mean every word of it, but not quite in the way she yearns for.

“Thank you,” she says instead, giving only a shy smile.

He pulls out her chair, the food already laid in front of two place settings, and she laughs awkwardly at how old-school it all is. He seems to know exactly what she’s thinking when he sits down opposite her and laughs just the same.

He looks beautiful like this, the gold flecks of his brown eyes sparkling in the the dim light and his hair long enough that it flops over his forehead when he laughs. That’s when she feels that familiar pang in the pit of her stomach – the one that says ‘danger approaching’. The one that reminds her why she’s alone again on Valentine’s Day in the first place, because he’s forbidden fruit but she can’t seem to stop thinking about him. And it’s going to be harder than ever to move on with this dreamlike, perfect non-date fresh in her memory, harder than ever for a single other person to get close to making her feel the way he can with just a glance.

That’s why Tessa does the only thing she can think of to suppress it: she starts another argument.

“Could use more salt and pepper,” is the first comment she gives as she takes her first bite, quiet enough that it entertains the chance that he might not be listening.

“You’re a very hard woman to please. Anyone ever tell you that?” The corners of his eyes crease as he looks up at her.

“Only you.” _Only you_ , she thinks again, in a wistful, wishful way.

The truth is, every bite of the omelette could justify the kind of contented moans they make on the The Food Network. The flavours dance on her tongue, rich with all the cheese and butter that she’d had to deny herself for years. He knows the way to her heart, and each taste reminds her that this is all handmade just for her.

A comfortable silence settles as they both dig in, working through their plateful with keen appetites. Like always with them, there’s no need for conversation. It’s easy. And there’s no need to feign polite table manners. They eat with the same avid commitment as they do anything, heartily sweeping up every crumb.

“I’m gonna open up a restaurant,” he declares out of nowhere, as he scrapes up one last morsel of food from his plate.

Tessa can’t help but laugh at his confidence. “What are you gonna call it?”

He thinks carefully about the question for a minute, his faced so screwed up in thought that she can almost hear the cogs turning in his head as she waits him out. “Le Scossa,” he decides in the end.

“But it’s nothing to do with me. And that’s taken, anyway.”

“Well, every name’s gonna be taken somewhere, Tess. And you’re gonna come and help me run it, _obviously_. You’re my business partner.” Tonight, he seems to be saying that phrase as much as she used to. She’s at least grateful to have graduated from “like a sister” – small victories.

“I can’t run a restaurant.”

“Oh, we’ll keep you out of the kitchen, of course, but I can’t be doing the accounts and all that business-y stuff, Tess. I’m just there for the food. And I’m the eye candy.”

She can’t help but laugh. “The eye candy? How are they gonna see you if you’re in the kitchen?”

“Well, the food’ll be so good, everyone will demand to shake the chef’s hand.”

“You don’t think that’s an overblown reaction to a rather middling omelette, Scott?”

“Tessa, please, you must call me ‘chef’.”

“Yes, chef.”

He brightens, the crinkles appearing at the corners of his eyes as he bears his teeth this time.

“And chef?”

“Yes, madame?”

“The food was delicious.”

 

*

 

_Hour Three_

 

After they tag-team the clean-up operation, Tessa and Scott head into the living room, ready to crash out onto her couch. They hit the cushions in perfect time with each other, letting themselves sink in with a long, contented sigh.

Stuffed beyond measure, Tessa’s hand settles over her stomach in blissful appreciation of just how full she feels. It’s a kind of indulgence that she still hasn’t got used to. There’s still a recklessness to it, a feeling like it’s breaking all the rules. Freedom is a strange new reality to which they’re still adapting. Perhaps that’s why he’s still as forbidden as ever – despite the fact that they aren’t competing now, there are no coaches telling them what they can and can’t do, and there’s not a single medal at stake.

“I’d say that was a success, eh?” he says, interrupting her thoughts. He puts his hand up for a lacklustre high five and she acquiesces instantly, nodding her answer with slightly dazed enthusiasm.

“What’s next then, Moir?”

“What games do you have?”

“Games?”

“Yeah, games. I think it’s time to get serious here.”

“Umm.” She looks around the room to the small cupboard where she keeps them, staring at the blank white door as though it’ll have all the answers. “I have… Mouse Trap, Twister, Jenga…”

“How old are you?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’m half expecting the next one to be Hungry Hippos! And I’m not playing Twister with you. You’ll kick my ass. You’re like a twisty pretzel woman.” He illustrates his point by knotting his arms and arching his back into some vague imitation of a yoga pose.

“You really know how to make a girl feel good.”

“That doesn’t make you feel good?”

“No. Maybe try _sexy_ pretzel woman next time.”

“Noted.”

As an afterthought, she mumbles, “Now I want pretzels.”

“Next time I’ll bring pretzels,” he reassures her, absently reaching over to pat her knee in an entirely platonic, supportive gesture – one friend to another. (Even through two layers of fleece, it’s torture.)

When his hand draws back, she waits for his next move. Only silence follows.

“You don’t really have a plan, do you?”

“I have a plan,” he replies defensively, before adding: “It’s a flexible plan.”

“Ooh,” she suddenly bursts out, slapping his knee as she jerks upright. “You know what I do have?”

He imitates her eager urgency: “What?”

“That old dance mat.”

“Tess,” he says, with such grave seriousness that she begins to wonder if she’s misread the situation. Scott turns his head dramatically to look her dead in the eyes. “You need to go get that dance mat right now.”

“You get wine, I’ll get the mat.”

“Deal.”

They both rush out of the room in different directions: Tessa setting off for the attic while Scott zips back to the kitchen. She makes quick work of dusting off the old box and running back to the living room, where she meets him, similarly flushed from his errand.

“You good with red?” he asks, holding up the bottle by the neck.

“Yes. Do you remember how to set it all up?”

They switch handfuls, with Tessa taking the wine from him and Scott taking the stuff from the attic. He’s already set two wine glasses down on the coffee table, so she wastes no time with the pouring, portioning out two generous glassfuls to get them started.

“God, I hope so. I’m hyped now,” he says with a laugh, turning over the box to study the instructions on the back.

Between the two of them, they manage to resurrect the old games console and plug it all in. They’re eventually greeted by the cheery, techno beats of the game’s menu, with a very low-fi avatar waiting on them with a similar energy to Scott on her doorstep earlier, moving restlessly on the spot.

“We should probably let the food settle for a minute,” Tessa suggests once they’re ready to go.

“Yeah, we could do that, oooor you could hit ‘I Will Survive’ and get the party started.”

“What’s come over you?”

“I’m just looking forward to kicking your sweet ass.”

“I’m gonna take the compliment even as I tell you that _that_ –” she clicks her fingers “–ain’t never–” she does it again “–gonna–” and again “–happen.” She completes the Z-snap with one final click, before giving him a self-satisfied smirk. It’s the kind of expression learned from the school of Scott Moir smugness. As an extra flourish, she theatrically throws down her bathrobe in preparation for the impending dance battle.

“Only one way to find out.”

Scott dances first, setting the standard with a half-decent Gloria Gaynor number that, rather cruelly, involves more booty shaking than she recalls from her childhood – though a good 50% of it is Scott’s own embellishment. When it comes to her turn, she opts for ‘Groove is in the Heart’, and decides to make some attempt at returning his casual torture by adding plenty of little moves of her own. To no one’s surprise, she comes out on top in round one.

For round two, Scott resorts to sabotage. He slips on the chorus of his _Wham!_ number and, despite his best efforts to recover the routine, finds himself further behind than before. When it comes to her turn, he lingers at the side of the mini dance floor instead of crashing back down on her sofa to watch. Tessa finds herself unsurprised when he starts slamming his foot down on the wrong parts of the mat as she delivers a close-to-flawless version of ‘Don’t Stop Movin’ – by her own assessment.

As the little cheers from the audio of the game erupt in the background, she turns to Scott with arms akimbo. “You’re a dirty, dirty cheat, Scott Moir.”

“I did what I had to do.”

“Your mother would be so ashamed.”

With his hand crossed over his chest, he throws himself forward in a great big laugh at that. She blushes a little at just how much of a reaction he gives, and then raises her eyebrows and straightens her back in time for when he looks up, ready to give him one more reprimanding glare before her resolve softens.

 

*

 

_Hour Four_

 

The evening’s dancing wipes them out. They’re not feeling so Olympic anymore, now defeated by a practically-antique dance mat on a very different kind of February day. By 9pm, they’re sprawled out at different ends of the same couch just looking at each other as though waiting for the other one to say something.

Eventually, he interrupts the comfortable silence. “How about a movie?”

“Sounds perfect,” she replies, a sigh of relief escaping her that he’s not suggesting something else that requires any physical exertion. She’d have a hard time saying no to him, but the food plus dancing combination had left her in desperate need of a break.

Scott wanders over to the corner where she has a small pile of DVDs – organized very carefully by title and barely touched since being set down there. “What are you thinking?”

“Something happy,” is all she says, distractedly reaching to wrap herself up in her bathrobe once again. “Maybe ‘While You Were Sleeping’; that’s cozy.”

“Cozy?” he looks back over his shoulder, an eyebrow quirked.

Tessa shrugs at him, her eyes rolling a little. “There’s a lot of, y’know, chunky knit sweaters.”

“What about ‘Love Actually’?”

“No, that’s for Christmas.”

“This isn’t a Christmas film?”

“No, it’s just… winter.”

“Okay, Sandy B it is, then,” he says, cracking the case open and sliding the disc into the drive at the side of her television. Once the DVD menu appears on the screen, reassuring him it’s all working, he darts quickly back to his spot beside her on the couch.

Tessa reaches over the arm of her sofa and grabs the soft blush chenille blanket. She offers him a corner for him to spread over his legs as she does with hers, but he asks, “Why did you buy this?”

“It fits the decor.”

“It doesn’t fit _me_.”

“Yes, it does. Just come closer.”

Maybe it’s the wine but, cruising ever closer to danger, she shuffles herself nearer and nearer until she’s fully pressed up against him, close enough for the blanket to cover both of their knees. Scott then, with the unthinking confidence that seems to come with his tactile nature, wraps his arm loosely around her shoulders as he puts his feet up on the end of the coffee table.

Following his lead, Tessa does the same. She stretches her own legs out along his, before eventually crossing over them to prop herself up, limbs all mixed up together.

If he’s uncomfortable, the hand that rests over her knee says otherwise.

“Ooh, here, better get easy access to your chocolates, eh?” he suggests, suddenly noticing the box just out of reach on his side. He leans to grab it, before settling it in her lap without seeking so much of a glance in reward. Instead, he focuses his attention on the screen, wholly engrossed from the opening titles. This is the way he watches films: with all of himself and without distraction.

She notices it because this is the way she loves him. With all of herself and without distraction.

 

*

 

_Hour Five_

 

Tessa hadn’t realized how sleepy she was getting until they’d turned the film on. ‘While You Were Sleeping’ turns out to be all too fitting a title, considering the sizeable chunks of it she had ended up napping through. Nevertheless, it stirs a warm, comforting feeling to be snuggled like this, with Scott all to herself. She feels utterly relaxed now, just as he’d said. Even her pity chocolates, after a few taste-testing bites, are abandoned on the empty cushion seat beside her.

They shift closer until she’s curled possessively around his body, her head against his chest as his hand settles at her hip, pulling her in and holding her flush against him. If she could spend every night with his warm, solid form moulded against her, she’d never need to taste pity chocolates again.

As the movie builds to its romantic denouement, Tessa buries herself into his side more and more, her cheek nuzzling into the fabric of his t-shirt as he absent-mindedly strokes his hand against the side of her head. It makes her wish she’d had her hair down, loose and free for him to comb his fingers through, but even this small, diluted version of that stirs a boundless feeling of contentment. The pain of it, in the end, is that she only ever feels like this with him. And the proximity of the line, the one they must never cross, means she never feels at liberty to initiate these moments of closeness. They come along anyway, like now; they sneak up to remind her, just when she might be on the edge of finding relief in other possibilities, that she’ll never find a love like this anywhere else. Because he’s home. That’s what she feels as she snuggles closer, with the ready excuse of alcohol and sleep: _home_.

“See, I’m not such a bad deal, eh, kiddo? I make a good pillow, at least,” he whispers quietly as the film cuts to an establishing shot, seeming to hear her thoughts in the quiet.

“You do,” she says, almost moaning it as she cozies against him.  

“Can I say something?”

Tessa shifts herself upright onto her elbow to get a good look at him.

“I don’t really get this movie. She should just tell the guy, Jack, right? It’s so obvious he’s in love with her – the way he looks at her. And that whole leaning thing.”

“She’s scared, though,” she replies, so cautious about her wording that it barely sounds above the dialogue from the television. “She’s all on her own and she’s afraid that if she messes things up, she’ll lose his whole family.”

He makes a little grunt of acceptance.

“She’s been on her own so long, it’s probably hard for her to really see it clearly. She doesn’t mean to hurt anybody.”

“I know. It just seems a little silly… that she wouldn’t notice.”

“Love is blind, Scott.”

He doesn’t have anything to say to that.

 

*

 

_Hour Six_

 

After the movie ends, they end up lying together, half asleep.

“It’s been a good Valentine’s,” she murmurs into his chest, cozying closer as her tiredness takes effect. “Thanks Scott.”

She hears him whisper softly into her hair, “Happy Valentine’s Day, kiddo. Love you.”

He says it distantly, like it’s not really about the words being heard; perhaps he doesn’t even know if she’s awake enough to hear him. She feels him press a gentle kiss to the top of her head and looks up, seeking out some reminder that it’s all meant as unromantically as always. A ‘love you’ on Valentine’s Day, no matter how frequently it’s said the other 364 days of the year, feels too weighty to brush aside entirely.

Tessa draws back far enough to look up at him and, when he meets her gaze, he catches the tears pooling in her eyes. She hadn’t even noticed them herself until the concern sparks in his expression.

“Hey, hey, what’s up?” he asks quickly, his voice smooth and soft with concern. He’s so worried, it forces up a sniff as she attempts to find some composure.

“I don’t know. It’s just Valentine’s, I think. It gets in my head.”

“You’re not gonna be stuck with me forever, T. You know that, right?” His hand starts rubbing her back with long, soothing strokes that start at the back of her neck and move down to the very base of her spine. She can feel every inch of it, the warm flat of his touch leaving goosebumps he’ll never feel through the thick fleece of her bathrobe. “Someday soon, some irritatingly handsome guy will take one look at you and fall headfirst. I’m just… the hold music.”

“You’re not the hold music,” she says with a little sob of a laugh, lightly swatting his chest.

Scott starts humming – some improvised little tune that imitates the sound of the jingles they play whenever she’s left waiting on the phone.

“If you were a song, you’d be… ‘Come What May’.” The song title slips out before she can consider the suggestion in detail. As her mouth closes, she bites down on her bottom lip.

His eyes flick up to her face, lingering so long that he seems to be taking a study of her features, and then his expression relaxes and, abruptly, he bursts out with it: “ _Storm clouds may gather and stars may collide…_ ” Delivering the lyrics with gusto, Scott stretches his arms out wide to add an extra element of theatre to the whole performance.

As she laughs, partly in surprise at the sudden volume, an “I love you” slips out; it escapes like a kite on the wind, floating out of reach and yet so undeniably, unmistakably there.

He glances up at her, a curious look in his eye, and then he cuts through the strange tension that builds by carrying on: “ _Until the end of time. Coooome what maaay_.” He sings it ridiculously then: heightened and dramatic and far, far too loud. That outgoing Moir boy always was loud. Impossible to ignore.

They end up laughing together in that giggly, contagious way that leaves neither one of them capable of escaping it. It has them shifting closer until their form becomes singular, the lines of their bodies impossible to mark out from one another.

“You didn’t really have a plan for any of this, did you?” she asks, feeling so aware of the lengths he’d ended up going to just to distract and entertain her all evening.

“I had a plan.” He tilts his head back against the line of the sofa, lifting a lock of hair out of her face as he looks at her in close-up. The light of his gaze shines warmly on her face. “We just… went a little off track.”

“What was your original plan?”

He swallows – loud enough that she hears it. And then, so quickly and so quietly she can barely catch every word as it rushes out of him, he admits, “That I’d come over with a rose in my hand and be the valentine you were hoping for.”

“Scott.”

“I came over here tonight because I thought…” He closes his eyes, keeping them shut tight. “I don’t know what I thought.”

Tessa’s hand strokes along his thigh and softly, she says, “Please. Tell me.”

“I thought maybe it was time. Time I just… told you.” His eyes open again then, locking onto hers. “I’m sorry. Stop me at any point if you need to but I’m... in love with you, kiddo. And I’ll be your hold music if that’s all you want, I’ll sing that fucking song forever, but, honestly, I want to be more than that. Finally. I finally want more than that. We can have more. Because, honestly, I’d rather be here, fighting with you about grape omelettes, than anywhere else in the world.”

“Yeah?” she asks, blinking away the tears just to get a clear look at him.

“Yeah.”

Tessa moves her hand up to his cheek, tenderly holding his face as he leans in. She rests her forehead against the line of his jaw and then finds she can’t quite figure out what comes next. She’s been withholding for so long, it takes a minute before she can say, “Scott. I’m in love with you.”

“Yeah?” he asks, lifting her chin in pursuit of further proof. It’s there. She’s certain of that when she meets his gaze.

Tessa nods. “It’s not long till midnight. What’ve you got planned now?”

“I was thinking I might kiss you.”

She almost giggles in surprise. It’s so direct, she thinks if she were standing up, her knees would’ve buckled. The words travel: to her arms as a fresh smattering of goosebumps come up, to her core as self-control starts fading in favour of baser instincts, to her heart as it beats faster, to her lips as she presses them urgently against his.

The kiss starts simple. It’s the two of them, close-lipped and terrified of this new frontier. And then, as if holding hands, they jump off the cliff together, deepening their embrace with tongues that dance together with the kind of harmony that took years of practice on the ice.

When they break apart to catch their breaths, Scott whispers, “Those pity chocolates taste pretty good.”

She giggles into the shoulder of his t-shirt before replying, “Your pity kisses taste better.”

The smile he gives just about takes her breath away. It transforms every part of him: his eyes crease at the corners, his cheeks lift with a warm rush of colour, his freshly-kissed lips reveal the perfect lines of his teeth. And then there are his hands, moving tenderly to her face, her hair, her neck. Eventually, his steady palm marks along the line of her body, settling at her waist, urging her forward for another kiss.

As it deepens, she feels his free hand move between them before the tie of her bathrobe comes undone. It falls open to allow his touch to move inside the warmth of it and pull her closer, indulging in the bare skin of her back beneath her pyjama top. He’s had his hands all over her a thousand times, but there’s a newness inside this – a release. She can finally _feel_ it rather than push it away. Freedom finally feels how it should. Not daunting or directionless, but invigorating.

Without a thought – because, at this point, rational thinking has truly abandoned her, she shifts forward into his lap and straddles him for better access. He gives a moan of approval against her lips as his eager hands move to new territory, palming her ass while she attempts to shift out of the bathrobe completely without breaking contact.

“Let’s…” she starts, utterly breathless. Too breathless to get her words out, her lips tingling and swollen in that just-kissed way she had barely remembered. “Let’s go upstairs,” she tries again.

Scott’s hand moves to the sensitive skin of her neck, his fingertips lost in her hair. She has to suppress the urge to arch into his touch, closing her eyes to it momentarily. When she opens them again, he’s there, focusing on her intently as though searching for doubt. He isn’t going to find any hint of it. Instead, she leans forward to kiss him with furious certainty as his hands smooth over her ass, ready to support her weight in what might be the easiest lift of their lives.

Letting her bathrobe fall to the floor, he stands from the couch with almost comical triumph. Her legs clamp around him tightly, but their kiss goes unbroken by the sudden motion.

As she continues pressing kisses to his lips, his face and his neck with unabashed eagerness, Scott carries her up the stairs, making a beeline for her bedroom just as she’d hoped. By the time they get there, she’s already pulled off his t-shirt to reveal his bare chest, and her hands move appreciatively across the muscular plane as he stumbles his way to the bed.

He lets her fall back onto the mattress lightly, her weight bouncing a little as she hits it. That’s when he breaks their embrace, gazing down at her as she lies back. His eyes move over her; she can feel it as tangibly as his touch, teasing along her skin with a stirring combination of awe and anticipation. She feels that same sense of anticipation, drawing in a deep breath, as though the long inhalation will help her process all that he is, all that they are, all that is happening and about to happen. But his eyes are so dark, his intent so clear, it makes her feel electric; she can feel the effect of him everywhere, craving relief already.

He unzips his jeans, shucking them off quickly, and then he leans over, hooking an arm around her waist to help her shift further up the bed as his knees find purchase on the mattress. They move together, finding something like the middle, her head reaching the cushions before she rushes to kiss him again, raking her fingers through his thick mop of hair to pull him back in.

Despite the hunger and heat of their kiss, there’s something delicate about the way his hands find the hem of her camisole and begin to slide it gently up her body. As the light cotton top shifts to expose her abs, she feels his hand sweep over her bare skin with the same appreciation she’d shown him; it’s a tender and worshipful touch. The cami top creeps further upwards as his fingers brush against the edge of it, settling just below her breasts. It’s close enough that the temptation proves too much; he moves beneath the fabric to cup her, her nipple pressing against the warmth of his palm as her body reflexively arches against his touch. Responding to her cues, he begins to knead her there, just there, varying the pressure to tease her through it as he holds her inside a kiss, her moans buried in his mouth and her grip pulling on his hair.

Tessa eventually wriggles just enough to persuade him to pull the top the rest of the way off, the reveal prompting as much fear as it does relief – and yet, he looks at her so warm and wanting, her surrender comes easy. She blushes under his reverential gaze, resisting the urge to cover herself with her hands and letting him take as long as he likes.  

Starting at the hollow of her neck, Scott kisses his way down the centre of her body, every point of contact sending shockwaves. She feels like a livewire; she feels every touch and every kiss with such a reviving spark. He only stops when he reaches the waistband of her pants, peeling them away with near-painful slowness, as though concerned that _this_ – the smooth reveal of her naked form – is going to be his undoing. She feels a similar sense of nervous, aching anticipation, its proof pooling between her legs.

Once her feet are free of the pyjama bottoms and he’s thrown them off to the side of the bed, he comes back to her, his kisses finding a path along the inside of her thigh, closer and closer until his tongue is licking at the very seams of her, his hands looped around her legs, just above the knee, holding her open for him to take all that he wants. He could take it all, she thinks, as she stretches out beneath him. But, evidently for Scott, it’s not really about taking. Not when she feels this good with his face buried between her legs, her hands encouraging him with rough strokes through his hair. It’s giving and giving and giving, until he’s dragging out an orgasm from the very depths of her, a release like nothing she can remember.

When she crashes out, her legs still trembling with aftershocks around him, he pulls back to look up at her. If Tessa had thought he’d looked smug before, this is something else. Her hand moves to his cheek, encouraging him to come back to her, and he shifts up her body to indulge her gratitude. Scott lets his weight settle over her as he kisses her again, the taste of her still on his tongue when their kiss deepens.

“Want you,” is all she can manage to say, whispering it into his ear when she breaks free of his kiss.

The look in her eye clears up any ambiguity.

He fucks her into the 15th, and then as they lie together after, glistening and sated, he asks, “Do you have any plans for Valentine’s Day?”

Tessa twists around to her front, propping one arm against his chest. “Next year?”

“Yeah.”  

“No.”  

The hand he’d settled against her back begins to stroke the length of her hair, a fond smile brightening his expression. “Well, uh, keep it free, okay?”


End file.
